


Dreams

by margdean56



Series: Stories of the Hawkfriends [2]
Category: Elfquest
Genre: Gen, Hawkfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-19
Updated: 2011-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-26 06:43:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/margdean56/pseuds/margdean56
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Last survivor of a destroyed holt" is one of the standard tropes of Elfquest fan fiction ... but what happens if you're not really the last?  Starsinger sets out with his lifemate and her friends to find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams

The sob was low and so muffled that it was almost inaudible, but it woke Kestrel as quickly as a cry. She twisted around in her sleep furs. In the grey light of earliest dawn she could make out the slender form of Starsinger beside her. As she had expected, tears from his closed eyes streaked his face, though by every other indication he still slept.

**Elh,** she sent to him gently. **Elh, wake up.**

He stirred and moaned, and his eyes opened. For a moment they regarded her blankly and confusedly. Then awareness came to their leaf-green depths along with a lingering sadness. Kestrel took her lifemate in her arms and held him for a while, stroking his pale hair, before asking any questions.

**Was it the same dream again?** she inquired at last. By then he was able to reply calmly.

**Yes, the same. Joyspring, my cousin, weeping, as I never saw her weep in her life. Weeping as if her heart was broken past hope of mending. Ah, beloved, High Ones send we never have cause for such weeping!** His arms tightened around her.

**Just that? Nothing more?**

**Nothing more. It is always the same — no, wait! There _was_ something more this time. I saw where she was sitting. It was … it was … the bank of a river, yes. She sat on the riverbank and wept, and then — Kestrel!** He gripped her arm. **She began to turn toward me, as if she were about to speak … and then the dream faded.** Starsinger’s intent gaze into space wavered, and he sank back into the thick furs.

**It must mean something,** he declared, staring up at the arched roof of their sleeping alcove with his hands behind his head. **Nearly two moons it’s been since it first came to me. Since then seldom a hand of nights has passed before it’s come again. But what its meaning may be I hardly dare think. I’ve never dreamed even of Willowind in that way.** The name of his lost lovemate came easily, for which Kestrel was thankful. That wound, at least, seemed to be healing.

**Willowind is dead,** she ventured. **Could it be that Joyspring is alive?**

Starsinger turned to look at her, eyes wide. **Alive? How could she be? My whole tribe—**

** _You’re_ here,** Kestrel pointed out. **If you escaped the humans, why couldn’t others? I realize that being the last of your tribe has a certain appeal for a tale-shaper, but why should you assume otherwise that you were the only one left? Did you search long before heading upriver?**

**No … it was too horrible. The uppermost thought in my mind was to get as far away as I could, as fast as I could.** Starsinger shuddered.

**I don’t wonder,** Kestrel replied sympathetically. **But surely you see it’s possible that some of your tribefolk still live.**

Starsinger considered this, his brow furrowed with worry. **That may indeed be true,** he admitted at last, **though if so, my dream tells me that Joyspring may well wish it otherwise. Ah, little cousin! The happiest, sunniest creature alive! Alive…** He turned to Kestrel, tears welling in his eyes again. **Beloved, what are we to do?**

 

The answer to that question seemed plain enough to the group of young elves gathered on a high ledge in the early morning sunshine.

“We must go find her, of course,” Galedancer stated, after Starsinger finished telling his dream and the meaning he and Kestrel attached to it. The dark-haired stormdancer sat cross-legged on top of a boulder. As always, she made her opinion sound like incontrovertible fact. “Or them, as it may be. If your cousin survived, there may be others.”

“Would Windspeaker let us go?” Mist asked worriedly, from where he leaned against the cliff wall behind the ledge. “Prime hunting season’s only a moon or so away.”

Dodger, sprawled on his stomach in the sun with his chin propped on his hands, snickered loudly. “Are you kidding?” He pronounced on his mother’s probable reaction with easy confidence. “You know how she is about the Dreamer’s prophecy. Look how lifted she was when Starsinger turned up. If we could find a whole new tribe of elves—” He arched his upper body and flung his arms wide for emphasis. “—she’d positively turn handsprings!”

Starsinger couldn’t help smiling at the image of the sedate Hawkfriend chieftess performing acrobatics, but there was a note of sadness in his quiet voice as he said, “I doubt we can hope to find a whole tribe. Some few may have escaped the humans, I agree, but the destruction was great. If Joyspring alone yet lives, I shall praise the High Ones and ask for no more.”

“You’re right, of course,” said Mist. “Still, there may be cause for hope. You know your cousin better than I do, Starsinger, but answer me this — is she likely to have survived so long on her own?”

“No,” Starsinger answered thoughtfully. “Few of my tribe could, I think. Several together, well … I don’t know.”

“Few, several, just one, what’s the difference?” Galedancer demanded with an impatient toss of her head. “They’re elves, our kin. If they’re in trouble and need help, we must help them. We need them, too. There have always been too few of us.”

“True enough,” Thunderstone put in, grinning. “Is she pretty, your cousin? Ouch!” he added as Galedancer kicked him, and hitched himself rapidly away from his place near her feet.

“She looks a good deal like me,” said Starsinger, repressing another smile. “Judge for yourself.” Thunderstone glanced sidelong at Galedancer and didn’t reply.

“I guess we’re decided then, aren’t we?” Kestrel said. “We’ll have to put it before Council, of course, but I think Dodger’s right — we won’t have much trouble persuading the rest of the tribe. What sort of elves would we be if we refused to aid our own kind?” _I only hope,_ she added to herself, looking around at her friends, _that our aid will be enough_.

 

Within three days they were ready to leave. As they had expected, it was not difficult to convince the Hawkfriends of the worthiness of their quest. Game had been plentiful during the year, so the hunters who remained should be able to make provision for the coming winter even in their absence. The harvest of nut and berry looked to be abundant too. They would not need to take many supplies.

The six companions decided to begin their journey at night. The river that would guide them flowed through the territory of the humans; they hoped to pass that stretch quickly and quietly while their ancient enemies slept. As the sun set, they gathered on the Council Ledge. The rest of the tribe came to see them off. They had put by bright clothes and ornaments and dressed as they would for a hunt, in brown or grey leathers. The only spots of color were Dodger’s blazing red hair and Kestrel’s more subdued ruddy ponytail.

All of them had bows and quivers of arrows except for Starsinger. He had not yet mastered the weapon sufficiently to be any better than a danger, to himself and anyone else other than his target. He had, however, been given one of the stone knives the Hawkfriends made. It felt odd to him, hanging from his belt. He hoped he would not have to use it as anything other than a tool. On his back, in a case of oiled leather, he carried his harp — “So that any of my tribefolk we find will be able to recognize me,” he’d said, only half joking.

The rest of the companions carried knives too, and Thunderstone had his war-hammer. “In case we meet any humans,” he’d declared. “And there’s no other way to deal with them,” Kestrel had added warningly. The last thing they wanted, she thought, was to stir up any human tribes they encountered along the way — especially since they’d have to use the same route coming back, possibly with one or more less battle-experienced elves in tow. She refused to consider that any of them might not come back.

Kestrel let her eyes roam over the rest of the party. Galedancer, by unspoken agreement the leader of the expedition, stood talking to Windspeaker, her stormcloud of dark hair stirring restlessly in the evening breeze. Dodger sat on a stone, lacing up a boot. Her rambunctious cousin rarely wore anything on his feet until the snow fell; he finished tying off the laces and twisted his foot about with a grimace. Thunderstone gazed into the distance in the direction of the river, absently tapping his palm with his hammer. When Merrybreeze, his sister, came up to him and said something, he only shook his tawny head. Mist, standing near Starsinger, also looked thoughtful, but then, he often did. Starsinger himself was the only one of the party who appeared more cheerful than usual. Kestrel could guess the reason. Since the decision had been made to act on his dream, it had not troubled him again, and he acted as if he had been relieved of a heavy weight. Then, too, he was returning to a place he knew. None of the rest of the Hawkfriends, save perhaps Cragspanner the climber, had ever traveled more than a day or two’s journey from their mountain home.

The sun had dropped below the horizon. It was time to leave. The members of the expedition gathered around Galedancer, while their tribefolk clustered close to bid them farewell with sendings, touches, and last words of advice. As the tribe parted to let the questers through, Tearsharer the healer enfolded his daughter in his arms. His sending was for her alone.

**Take special care, my child, for you defend not one life, but two.** For an instant she thought he was referring to Starsinger. Then she divined his true meaning.

**I will remember, Father,** she sent. **Oh, thank you!** Her eyes held the spark of a new hope as she ran to join her friends.

 

They journeyed for many days down the river. As they had hoped, they bypassed the humans’ camp without incident. The mountain slopes leveled out before them. The river widened and began to meander in its rocky bed. The stands of pines were replaced by a thick forest of broad-leafed trees, heavy with underbrush and carpeted with the dry brown litter of years past. Though the mountain elves occasionally grew uneasy out of sight of the sky, where the winds could not reach them, Starsinger seemed more at home. Despite his inability to float, he turned out to be an agile tree-climber. The party usually spent the night nested among the branches. During the daylight hours they would travel; then, as evening came on, some would go to hunt small game while others gathered roots, mushrooms, nuts or berries, and made camp. They would sit around the fire and talk while they ate their evening meal. Sometimes they would beguile the time with a tale or song before they doused the flames and retired to the treetops, where they took turns sleeping and keeping watch. Once a bear came and sniffed at the remains of their fire, but aside from that, they rarely saw any creature larger or more dangerous than a fox or deer.

One evening, nearly half a moon after they left the Aerie, Starsinger asked, “Could somebody tell me about the Dreamer? I’ve heard mention of him and his prophecy several times now, but no one has ever explained it.”

The Hawkfriends looked at each other. “Galedancer, you’re oldest,” Kestrel ventured.

“But I never put much faith in it,” Galedancer objected, emphasizing her point with a half-eaten leg of rabbit. “I think Mist could tell it better.”

“I only know what I’ve been told,” Mist said slowly, gazing into the fire with his chin on his bent knees. “I wasn’t born yet, you know. But…” He sighed. “It was many turns of the seasons ago, more than an eight of eights — maybe nine eights, maybe ten.”

“More,” Galedancer said.

“Was it? I don’t know.”

“A little. You’re close enough.”

“It was the time of the Burning Sickness, that I do know. Nearly half the tribe died that winter, of an illness that struck without warning and usually killed those who caught it within a few days. We never found out what caused it. We called it the Burning Sickness because of the high fever that came with it. That was about the only symptom. An elf might just feel dizzy, and a little later he’d be flat on his back, burning with fever. No one seemed safe from it. Some got over it — I know you did, Galedancer, and your father, Kestrel, fought it out of himself after having been one of the first to come down with it. By that time he didn’t have much strength left to help others. He did the best he could, Moonrill always said … but for most it was too late anyway.

“The Dreamer — he wasn’t called the Dreamer then, of course. His name was — what was it?”

“Cloudwatcher,” Dodger supplied. “He and my mother were lovemates before she Recognized Tallpine.”

“That’s right. Well, Cloudwatcher had always been intuitive, you might say. He had a nose for the weather, for instance, and sometimes he seemed to know things without knowing _how_ he knew them. When the humans were going to make a raid. Where a lost child had wandered off to. Where you’d put something you couldn’t find. Things like that.”

“And he was almost as good a tracker as you,” Dodger put in, nudging Mist in the ribs. Mist rolled his eyes and continued.

“Anyway, he came down with the Burning Sickness. And as he lay in his cave, dying, he saw a vision.” The thin youth broke off and looked beseechingly at Galedancer. “Help me remember the words.”

“We’ll all help,” Galedancer said, taking his hand in hers and reaching for Thunderstone’s with the other. All the Hawkfriends joined hands in a circle, including Starsinger. Their collective memories flowed into his mind, memories passed down from their elders and reinforced by frequent sharing.

He saw a dazzling plain of ice. From it rose crystal spires that shone with a rainbow aura. He felt an urgent call, an irresistible yearning, and he heard a voice crying: **It calls, it calls, it calls, and they shall come — all the scattered children, all the lost children. From the four winds they shall come, from the ends of the earth they shall come, they shall come together in joy. In joy they shall be gathered together, in joy they shall come home. Come home! Come home! Come home!**

The vision ended, and the circle broke.

“He died that night,” Mist concluded simply. “Some said it was nothing but a fever dream. But Windspeaker was with him, and saw it through his eyes. She says that he was calm, not raving, and that he died with a smile on his lips, as if he himself was going home. And it’s true that no one else who died of the Burning Sickness had any fever dreams at all. So that was the Dreamer and his dream.” He shrugged. “Make what you will of it. It gave our tribe a kind of hope in a desperate time. Whether or not you choose to believe it, you’ll find some to agree with you.”

“I cannot choose but to believe it,” Starsinger said softly. “I have never before seen the crystal spires or the plain of ice, or heard those words, but I know that call. I have felt it all my life.” The others stared at him. “We didn’t keep close count of years in the Enchanted Valley,” he went on musingly, “but I think I must have been born about the same time as the Burning Sickness struck your tribe. Whether there is any connection I don’t know, but it’s an odd coincidence.”

“You’ve heard the same call the Dreamer did?” Kestrel echoed. “All your life?”

Starsinger nodded. “As far back as I can remember, anyway. Not constantly, but every so often — sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker. Usually it’s while I’m asleep, or daydreaming. It was never very strong, kind of like an inclination you might have to wander over to a favorite spot. Nowhere near as strong as in that vision — nothing that couldn’t be easily overcome. And since there seemed no reason for it, I never paid much attention to it. Though I might have as a baby,” he added speculatively. “My mother used to tell me she always knew which direction to look when I’d crawled out of her sight.”

Mist yelped, “You mean it has a _direction?_ ”

Starsinger nodded again. “That was why I was upriver the day the humans came. The call got stronger once Melié departed and her enchantment no longer protected the valley. I felt it that day more intensely than ever, and when I wandered off to find some peace and quiet, I wandered that way. I think I may have had some half-formed idea of leaving even then, before it was forced on me. Afterwards I just kept going in the same direction, without thinking about it.”

“What you’re saying, Starsinger, in your roundabout way,” Dodger cut in, “is that it comes from _there_.” He jabbed his finger upriver, in the direction of the many days distant Aerie.

“That’s right,” Starsinger said. “Only it’s beyond the mountains, I think.”

“Bound to be,” Dodger agreed blandly, “or Cragspanner would have spotted it by now. Thing like that would be hard to hide.”

“But what _is_ it?” Kestrel wondered. “What did the Dreamer see?”

“I don’t know,” said Galedancer, her voice taut with excitement, “but I can guess. Now that Starsinger says he’s felt it too, now that it has a direction, like it’s a real place. Think! We talk about it all the time and never even consider what we’re saying.” She fixed her eye on Kestrel. “What are you waiting for? For—”

“ _The lost dwelling of the High Ones!_ ” cried Kestrel, Dodger, Thunderstone and Mist all together. The six elves stared at each other, leaning back on their hands, open-mouthed, the forest silent around them.

Dodger finally broke the silence, shaking his head. “Oh, no, it’s nonsense.” His voice wavered between laughter and terror. “The lost dwelling of the High Ones … it’s a legend, a — a dream. It _can’t_ be real. Not a real place, a place you could … go to.” The last words were almost a whisper. As they died away, everyone knew what everyone else was thinking without benefit of sending.

“Not _now_ , anyway,” Galedancer said at last, a tremor underlying even her confident tones. “One quest at a time is quite enough, thank you. And I think we all need some sleep.” There were nods of agreement, but no more talk as the six elves put out their fire and sought what rest they could find in the branches.

 

When they rose the next morning, they did not speak of what had passed between them the night before — not then, or for a long time afterward. They continued on their way, they told tales by firelight, but by unspoken consent the subject of the lost dwelling of the High Ones did not come up again.

Another half moon passed as they traveled. Then one morning, as they entered a grove of trees taller than any they had seen yet, Starsinger stopped dead. “We’re near,” he said in a toneless voice as the others gathered around him. “The trees … I can feel the memory of Melié’s ring. And listen … the falls…” The Hawkfriends listened: a dim roar hovered on the edge of hearing. Starsinger began to run. His companions followed, bounding through the trees like deer. As they ran the roaring became louder until it filled the air around them, blocking out all other sounds. All at once they burst out of the trees. Again Starsinger halted. They found themselves on a spur of rock. To their right an immense waterfall began, plunging over a massive lip of stone and tumbling hundreds of feet into the valley below. The Hawkfriends followed its course with eyes widening at the vista spread before them.

The valley was shaped like a spearhead. It was narrow at the near end, partly shrouded in the fine spray of the falls and bordered with high cliffs. Then it widened into a flat plain, while the cliffs subsided to steep slopes and finally to low, wooded hills at the far end. Through the midst of it the river flowed, broad and slow after that first terrific plunge, in leisurely loops and meanders, until it wound its way between the far hills and disappeared. Forest clothed the sides of the valley, but the wide banks of the river were treeless green meadows. Starsinger’s verbal descriptions, based on things of which the Hawkfriends had no experience, had failed to convey to them the beauty of his lost home. Even Kestrel had never pressed him for sending-pictures of it, afraid of arousing painful memories. Now she saw that he wept, and as she stood beside him her eyes, too, filled with tears.

For the valley was scarred. Whole groves of trees stood black and bare. Great swaths of meadow were burnt down to stubble and naked earth. It lay before them like a once beautiful creature crippled by unhealed wounds. Starsinger looked as if the same wounds had reopened on his heart.

**It will come back.** Mist’s sending was unexpectedly calm, even serene. **The earth endures, it provides. In time the grass will grow in the meadows and the trees will rise in the forest. It will come back.**

**But not as it was!** flashed Starsinger’s anguished reply. **Never again as it was!** From his mind flooded pictures of the Enchanted Valley as he had known it, from this spot and many others, in its varied glories as the seasons turned — all suffused with the golden glow that was Starsinger’s love of his home.

**No, not as it was. Nothing can ever be as it was, except in memory.** The sending was tinged with regret. **The world must change, and go on … and so must we.**

Starsinger lowered his head, wiping away his tears. **You’re right, we must.** He began to cast about vaguely. **There’s a path here somewhere…**

**We could always jump,** Galedancer suggested dryly.

**You first, oh fearless leader,** Thunderstone invited her. Galedancer stepped toward the edge of the cliff, and Starsinger cried out in alarm. The stormdancer cocked an eye at him.

**Don’t worry, Starsinger, I won’t try it. Not that I couldn’t do it, you understand … but it might give _unwarranted_ encouragement to others.** She looked meaningfully at Thunderstone.

**Here’s your path, Starsinger,** Mist sent quickly, before the storm could break. **The sooner we get down it the better, I’d say. We’re awfully exposed up here.**

The path was steep, rocky, and slick with blown spray, but a good deal wider than many of the tracks in the Aerie. The six friends had little trouble negotiating it, and soon reached the valley floor.

**Is there anything to eat around here?** Dodger asked, looking around. **Last night’s catch was pretty skimpy.**

**You and your belly!** exclaimed Kestrel, but Starsinger answered:

**There used to be a good berry patch not far from here. It may still be there.** He set off, angling toward the river, walking quickly and glancing neither right nor left. _He doesn’t want to look around more than he has to,_ Kestrel thought. Sensing in him a need for privacy, she let him get a ways ahead of her, the other Hawkfriends behind her.

Starsinger soon reached the riverbank. Here it was much as he remembered it, thick with redberry bushes cultivated by generations of plantshapers. A particularly dense bush stood before him, hung with numerous shiny clusters ripening to a shade like blood. The sweet-sour taste of them came vividly to his memory. He reached out a hand to one, then froze as he heard a rustle from the other side of the bush. Then another, and another. Someone else was picking berries, the branches shaking as their fruit was pulled away.

Hardly daring to breathe, Starsinger crept around the tall bush. The berry picker sensed him and whirled, her forest-green eyes wide. Her basket fell from her hand, spilling its bounty in the grass. “Who—?” she gasped. Then, as he stepped into view, her unbelieving whisper came: “S-Starsinger?” He held out his arms to her, not trusting himself to speak. In an instant she was in them, hugging him close, as if she were afraid he would melt into insubstantiality if she let him go. “Oh, Starsinger!”

“Joyspring. Little cousin.” His voice was thick with emotion. Her sunny curls foamed over his hands as they clasped her to him, their fresh scent dearly familiar, but her young body was unwontedly thin. He could feel her ribs and the sharp planes of her shoulderblades under the ragged tunic she wore.

“Starsinger. Oh, I thought — I never dreamed I’d see you again. Where did you come from? Where have you been?”

“Far away from here, little one. And I found friends! Other elves. Come and meet them. They’re—”

“Tearspring! Where are you?” The voice was hard and sharp, and the face of the elf who followed it into the sunlight was hard and sharp too. Thick rust-red hair pulled severely back fell in a long, smooth tail from the crown of his head. His light brown eyes held no welcome.

“Foxwit. I might have known.” Starsinger released Joyspring from his arms and turned to face the other elf. “I suppose I should have expected that if anyone survived the humans’ attack, it would be you. You of all of us would know how to look after yourself.”

“You!” Foxwit spat out the word like a sour berry. “Where did you spring from, Starsinger? Ingrek’s blood, I thought I’d seen the last of you — burnt to ashes like your precious treeshaper, or spitted like a rabbit on a human’s spear.” His face set into lines of grudging acceptance. “Well, as long as you’re here, you may as well come along to the camp. Though what work you can do that will be of any use, the High Ones only know. We certainly don’t have much call for _that_.” He indicated Starsinger’s harp contemptuously. “Come on.”

“Wait.” Starsinger’s voice was deceptively mild. “Aren’t you going to invite my friends?” His companions, who had caught up with him long since and had been hiding in the bushes, took their cue to step forward where they could be seen. Foxwit’s eyes widened with shock, then narrowed with displeasure, but he said nothing.

“Joyspring,” Starsinger went on, “I want you to meet Kestrel. She is my lifemate.” He took Kestrel’s hand in his. “This is Dodger, her cousin, and this is Galedancer, and Thunderstone, and Mist. They have come a long way with me to find you.”

“I’m so happy to meet you, Joyspring,” Kestrel said warmly, reaching out her other hand to Starsinger’s cousin. “Starsinger has told me much about you.” She smiled. “Wait till you meet Merrybreeze — that’s Thunderstone’s sister. I think you two will get on.”

“There are more of you?” Foxwit did not sound entirely happy at the prospect.

“Not here,” laughed Thunderstone. “Our tribe lives many days’ journey from here.” He waved a casual hand in the direction of the waterfall.

“We would be glad,” Galedancer said in the purring voice usually reserved for her keenest barbs at Thunderstone, “to welcome you into our tribe.” Kestrel glanced sharply at her friend, who had fixed a calculating gaze on Foxwit.

“Yes, you will both be welcome,” said Starsinger with an effort, completely missing the undertones. “It is a long journey, but the Hawkfriends are good folk, and they will be glad to see you.”

“I think not.” Foxwit’s voice had a malicious edge to it. “For we are not going on any journeys, are we, Tearspring? Too many — things — would be left behind.” He turned abruptly. “I will lead you to our camp, where you will have such hospitality as we can offer.” He strode away, not bothering to look back to see if they followed.

Starsinger turned a questioning gaze on Joyspring. She looked away, her eyes brimming, then stooped to retrieve her dropped basket, scrabbling nervously for the spilled berries. “Come to the camp,” she whispered. “I can’t talk about it. You’ll see.” Wondering, they followed her.

She led them away from the river. They soon left the bushes behind and struck out across a blackened field. The harper moved up beside his cousin and took the laden basket from her hands. “Don’t speak of it if it’s too painful,” he said in a low voice as they walked, “but I would like to know how you escaped the humans.”

“I was swimming in the lily pool,” she answered, “our favorite spot, remember? The lilies hadn’t bloomed yet, but the lily pads were out. I’d just crawled out onto the bank for a rest when I heard the screams.” She shuddered, remembering. “I looked out from the reeds and saw Limblithe running toward me. Three humans were chasing him. One of them threw a spear. It went through him and came out of his chest. He fell… He was still alive when they reached him, but… I dived back into the water and hid under the lily pads. I think the humans heard me, because they started splashing around in the pool, but I stayed underwater and held my breath as long as I could. By the time I had to come up for air, they were gone. I didn’t come out of the water again till night fell and the rain put the fires out. I spent the night shivering in the reeds. When morning came … the trees … the dead…” She covered her eyes with a thin hand.

“All right, you don’t have to say any more,” Starsinger soothed. “I saw it too before I fled upriver. I didn’t think anyone had survived.” He laid a hand on her arm. “But what about Foxwit? And what’s this ‘Tearspring’ business?” He frowned.

“Foxwit is chief now,” she told him. “I think he — I think he killed some humans to escape them.” Horror underlay her words. “They took or burned all our stores. His hunting kept us alive. We would have starved if not for him, before anything ripened. Even so, it was hard, but he made us hang on, forced us to survive. He said we weren’t to think of joy anymore, that it had made us weak. So he calls me Tearspring, and Greenbough is Blackbough now, and—”

“Greenbough! Is he here? How—? Well, I won’t ask you any more at present. But take your proper name back, little cousin. There is cause for joy in the world. Finding you alive proves it for me. Come now — can’t you show my friends the smile they’ve come all this way to see? That’s better.”

They passed from the barren meadow into what had once been a grove of trees. It was reduced to charred stumps, with here and there the dead hulk of some ancient trunk looming over them, naked branches clawing at the sky. Kestrel thought it was the most desolate, mournful place she had ever seen. Starsinger, mercifully, appeared to be too absorbed in cheering his cousin to notice his surroundings.

At last they came to a part of the forest that had been spared from the flames. In a small clearing, not far from the edge of the burnt area, the tiny remnant of the elves of the Enchanted Valley had made their camp. Foxwit was waiting for them there. He stood with folded arms beside a stone-ringed firepit. On a log next to him sat a gaunt-looking male elf with hair the color of dead leaves and a weary, defeated expression. His eyes brightened a little, however, when he saw Starsinger.

“Greenbough, my friend, I’m glad to see you!” Starsinger carefully set down the basket of berries and went to greet the brown-haired elf.

“Starsinger! Foxwit told me you’d come back, but I hardly dared to believe it.” Greenbough’s voice was soft and hesitant, as if he feared to be noticed if he spoke too loudly. His dark eyes roved timidly over the five Hawkfriends standing in a group behind Starsinger. The harper smiled and introduced his companions once more.

“And this is Greenbough,” he finished. “If he seems shy at first, it’s because he’s more at home with trees than with people. Isn’t that so, my friend?” Greenbough smiled wanly.

Starsinger looked around the clearing. “Is this all of you?” he asked. “Three survivors?” _Out of more than eight-and-two hands,_ Kestrel could almost hear him thinking.

“Four,” Foxwit said, his expression unreadable. “There’s one more.”

“Who?”

Foxwit jerked his head toward the other side of the clearing. “Tearspring, you’d better bring her out. Let them see.”

At the edge of the clearing a small hut had been woven of branches. Joyspring vanished into this tiny structure and reappeared leading another elf by the hand. This elf was tall, taller than any of the Hawkfriends or the other elves of the Valley, with a cloudlike mass of long hair the grey-white color of an overcast sky. Starsinger’s eyes widened when he saw her.

“Sister of my mother,” he whispered. “Wealweaver.” He hurried forward. “Wealweaver! Healer!” The tall female gave no sign of recognition — no sign, in fact, that she noticed anything at all. Her grey-green eyes were blank and sightless, her fine-drawn features almost without color.

“It’s no use, Starsinger,” Joyspring said in a choked voice. “She won’t hear you. She hears nothing … sees nothing.”

“You can put food in her mouth and she’ll swallow it,” Foxwit said grimly. “If you lead her by the hand she’ll follow you, slowly. She’ll sit or lie down where she’s put, but she doesn’t move otherwise, or speak, or take any notice of anyone or anything.”

“Have you tried sending to her?” Mist asked, speaking for the first time.

“Yes, I did,” said Joyspring. “It was awful! She was — empty. As if her spirit was gone — or, or lost so deep inside that…” She looked at Starsinger beseechingly, her eyes full of tears. “Foxwit is right. I can’t leave. Mother needs me. There’s no one else to take care of her. I can’t just let her die, even if — even if she never comes back.”

Starsinger opened his mouth to say something encouraging, but no words would come. _If only we had another healer here,_ he thought, _like Tearsharer, or if we could bring Wealweaver to the Aerie. If a healer could do any good,_ he amended doubtfully. But the notion was clearly impossible. There was no conceivable way that his mother’s sister could make a moon-long journey in this condition.

“You and your friends may stay the night, certainly, Starsinger,” Foxwit said. “Or longer, if you like,” he added with a shrug, “though I see no reason why you would want to. I’m sure your lifemate and her kin will wish to return to their home soon. Now I am going to hunt. We will meet again in the evening.” He left the clearing, pausing by the hut to pick up a long, slender spear before vanishing into the trees.

“Well!” Galedancer exclaimed, folding her arms. “He’s making it pretty clear he’ll be glad to see the backs of us!”

“Let’s us go hunt, too,” Dodger suggested. “There are a lot of us, and skyfire strike me if I want to be dependent on _his_ bounty. I’m sure I’d choke. How did a sweet bunch like this,” he waved his hand around the clearing, “ever produce such a puckernut?”

“High Ones only know,” Starsinger said with the shadow of a smile. “He never quite fit in, I’ll admit, in the old days, though he seems to have found his place now.”

“He certainly has,” said Galedancer, “and he’s scared to death someone’s going to take it away from him.”

“Well, he went that way, so we’ll go the other,” Dodger said, “and hope we don’t run into him. Who’s coming?”

Galedancer and Thunderstone decided to join Dodger in the hunt, while Kestrel, Mist, and Starsinger stayed behind with Joyspring. They helped her wash her harvest of berries with water fetched from the river, and scrub and cut up a sack of roots Greenbough had collected. While they worked, Starsinger related to his tribefolk how he had escaped the Valley and come to the Aerie, where he was rescued from pursuing humans and Recognized Kestrel. It was only natural that he should fetch out his harp to illustrate his tale, letting them see the mingled black and red strings. After that, his cousin’s wistful request was hardly needed to induce him to play. Soon lively music rippled from the instrument. As its magic filled the camp, Kestrel could see in Joyspring’s face the happy, sunny-natured elf she had been. Even Greenbough’s sad eyes brightened at the harpsong.

Wealweaver had meanwhile been seated on the log Greenbough had abandoned, unregarded by everyone save Mist. His gaze seemed periodically drawn to her against his will. All at once he started, the sharp hiss of his indrawn breath cutting across the thread of the music. “Wealweaver! She was listening!” he blurted in answer to the others’ startled queries. They all looked at the tall elf woman. She seemed much the same to them, except for what might be an almost imperceptible turning of her head. Nevertheless, at Mist’s urging they clustered around her while Starsinger, kneeling in front of her, drew melody from the harpstrings again. There was no reaction — no movement, no sound, no awareness in the former healer’s eyes.

“But I’m sure I saw it,” Mist insisted as they went back to their preparations for the evening meal. “It’s gone now, but just for a moment _something_ looked out of her eyes. Her spirit is in hiding, but it’s still in there somewhere. I’d stake my life on it!”

**Leave it, Mist,** Kestrel sent to him privately. **You’re only upsetting Joyspring.** With a glance at the golden-haired maiden’s worried face, Mist subsided.

Any further discussion was forestalled by the return of the Hawkfriends’ hunting party. They had bagged a young buck and were in high spirits. These were raised even more when Foxwit appeared near sunset with nothing more than a couple of rabbits to show for his trouble. By that time the dressed carcass of the deer was roasting fragrantly in the firepit. Though they minded their manners and did not gloat, there was twinkle in more than one Hawkfriend’s eye in response to the sharp-faced chieftain’s look of chagrin. Their feast that night was a merry one, despite Foxwit’s sullenness and Wealweaver’s unresponsive presence. Yet Kestrel noticed that Mist seemed abstracted and preoccupied, while more than ever his gaze was drawn to that pallid, masklike face.

The stars had flowered in the clear sky, and Mother Moon had led Child Moon partway up the vault of the heavens, when Foxwit at last rose to his feet. “It grows late,” he said. “We should sleep. We have not bowers for so many, but there are trees enough. Tearspring, put the silent one in her hut. Then you may see our guests lodged before you come to my bower.” He turned to go, but Starsinger was on his feet also. Kestrel sensed at once that her lifemate was angry, though the controlled tones of his voice betrayed only the barest hint of it.

“My cousin’s name,” he said quietly but distinctly, “is Joyspring. And though you may call yourself chief of the elves of the Enchanted Valley, Foxwit, that does not make her your bond-slave to come and go at your bidding. Go to your own rest if you will. Joyspring will go when she pleases, and not before.”

“Your cousin knows her duties,” Foxwit lashed back, “better than you do, Starsinger — you who abandoned your tribe and fled like the rabbit you are. Who are you to come creeping back now, with a pack of barbarians at your tail? Are they your followers, come to support you? Do you intend to stay and challenge me for the chieftainship? I think not. Go back to your mountain caves with your fine new friends. We have no need of you or your counsels here. Tearspring, I will await you.” He turned on his heel and stalked out of the clearing.

“How I should like,” Thunderstone said conversationally, “to take that fox-tail of his and stuff it into his poisonous mouth.”

“You’d have to wait your turn, after me,” said Galedancer. “’Barbarians,’ is it? I suppose that’s because we have the gall to hunt better than he does. It couldn’t be our manners, could it? That would be the skunk complaining of the weasel’s musk! Joyspring, you don’t have to go to him. Stay and talk awhile with us.” Joyspring mumbled something inaudible and rose, avoiding the tall Hawkfriend’s eye, but Starsinger caught her arm as she moved toward Wealweaver. He turned her gently to face him.

“Joyspring,” he asked her in a low voice, “have you Recognized him?”

“No,” she answered, looking down at the ground, her shoulders hunched miserably.

“But he has made you join with him.” The harper’s usually mild face was grimmer than Kestrel had ever seen it.

“Oh, Starsinger, try to understand!” Joyspring pleaded, raising her eyes to his. “It is not so terrible. He speaks harshly, I know, but he is not truly cruel. It is better than being alone, all the long nights. And we are the last of our tribe. What other chance do we have of renewal?”

“Without Recognition—”

“It has happened, you know it has! Children have been conceived outside of Recognition. Not many, I know … but it was our only hope!”

“Without love…” The singer’s voice was almost too low to be heard, but Joyspring turned away, tears starting in her deep green eyes. “Oh, little cousin,” Starsinger went on, his soft voice filled with pain, “you speak bravely, and there is truth in your words. But within, your heart weeps. Oh yes, I know it — what else could have called me back here? Your sorrow haunted my dreams, and I came to rescue you. Is there no way I can do it?”

Joyspring shook her head. “I can’t leave here. I can’t leave Mother. She needs me, and so does the tribe — what’s left of it. And you cannot stay. It would do no good, and there are other claims on you now.” She looked at Kestrel, an inexpressible longing in her eyes.

The young huntress’s quick compassion was stirred. She rose and came over to them. “I lay no claim on him,” she said quietly. “The demands of Recognition have been fulfilled.” Starsinger gave her a startled look which turned to astonished joy as she sent to him what Tearsharer had revealed to her at their parting. “He is free to stay if he wishes.”

“No,” said Starsinger, taking her hands in his. “No, I am not free. There are bonds more enduring than Recognition. You are my lifemate. Besides, Joyspring is right — it would solve nothing. Yet I wish there were some way…” He let the sentence trail off. He gazed around helplessly at Joyspring, at Greenbough and the silent Hawkfriends sitting beside the fire, finally at Wealweaver, statue-like on her log. Then he lowered his head in defeat. “It would be better if we had not come,” he said.

“Oh, no!” Joyspring protested. “Don’t say that! You have given us hope, Starsinger. To know that you live, and that others of our kind exist, is a great gift. It will make all our days brighter, truly it will!”

Starsinger looked at her. “Thank you for that,” he said. “But oh! I wanted to give you so much more.” He sighed. “Never mind. Go to your rest. We must sleep too. May the High Ones send you pleasant dreams.”

 

But it was Mist who dreamed that night, and his dream was unquiet. It began with no more than a feeling, the strong feeling that there was something he must find. He must search until he found it. He was searching, hunting. Mist was one of the Hawkfriends’ best trackers, observant of the smallest bent leaf or broken twig. What he sought now left traces too, less tangible but nonetheless perceptible. He followed the traces through a twisting labyrinth of caves. What he sought lay near the center, he knew. Music came faintly to his ears, and this aided him, though whether it led him from before or guided him from behind he was not sure. The trail freshened and he hurried forward. All of a sudden a huge black shape leaped out at him, wielding a bloody spear. Taken completely by surprise, he had time to do no more than cry out briefly before the weapon pierced his breast—

He woke with a violent start and almost fell off his branch. His frantic scrabbling to retain his balance woke Kestrel, who was curled up with Starsinger in the crook of the same tree.

**Mist, what is it? Did you have a bad dream?**

**More good than bad, I think,** was his startling reply, burning with a strange excitement mingled with apprehension. He swung down from the branch and floated to the ground. **Rouse Starsinger! Have him send to Joyspring. Tell them to meet me at Wealweaver’s hut.**

**What? Why?**

He looked up at her pleadingly and spread his hands. **Kestrel, I can’t explain. I’m not sure I understand it myself. Maybe the High Ones have sent us an answer — I don’t know. But I know what I have to do, and I’ll need help to do it.**

**All right, Mist, I’ll tell them.**

Within a short time all the Hawkfriends were roused and gathered outside the tiny hut. They were joined there by Joyspring, summoned by her cousin’s sending. She looked sleepy and confused, blinking in the predawn light. “What’s wrong?” she asked anxiously.

“Nothing’s wrong, Joyspring,” Mist told her. “I—” He turned to address all the curious assembled elves. “I’m going to try to wake Wealweaver — find the place where her spirit is hiding. My dream showed me how. But I need your help, Starsinger, and — and I think I’ll feel better with friends near.” His dark eyes seemed larger than ever in his pale face. He looked young and frightened, but resolute.

“We’ll be here,” Galedancer assured him, patting him on the shoulder. “Joyspring, would you bring Wealweaver out of her hut?”

The cloud-haired healer was led out and seated on the ground before the hut. Mist knelt in front of her and set his hands on her shoulders, gazing into her empty eyes. “Starsinger, play something. Is there a song she especially liked?”

The harper hesitated barely a moment before touching the strings of his instrument. A lilting, wistful melody, tinged with an indefinable longing, filled the clearing. Joyspring let out a little sigh and nodded. “Her favorite,” she whispered.

Mist nodded too, as if an expectation had been fulfilled. “Keep playing,” he said. Then, closing his eyes, he laid his forehead against the healer’s and launched the star of his spirit into her mind.

The first impression he got was of age. The tall elf woman was older than any other elf he knew — older than his parents, Moonrill and Cragspanner, older even than Tearsharer, eldest of the Hawkfriends. Though her face, unlike theirs, showed little trace of the passage of time, the caverns of her mind were layered with memory. For her the layering had been slow and peaceful, laid down by uncounted eights-of-eights of years flowing away as lazily as the Enchanted Valley’s river in its wide bed. Here and there flashed a patch of brightness, a jewel or a vein of ore or a colorful symbol on the wall. But all was empty and lifeless. The memories were inert, lacking the presence of the spirit that would make them breathe and move. Mist did not stop to gaze at them. They were not his to share, and his quest was more urgent.

He cast about carefully, seeking the traces that would lead him to his quarry. The trail was moons old, and he did not know where it began. Yet the music helped him, touching the ancient walls, indicating by its presence a certain path here and a passage there. At last Mist found what he sought. A spirit had passed this way, fleeing far into the depths. The track was faint, but he was able to follow it. Music came before and behind him. Deeper and deeper he moved, winding down through many passages, ever more twisted and dark. The memories became dark and twisted too, disquieting. Many of them were unformed, only the barest suggestions, but the suggestions were of sorrow, fear and pain. He was very near, he knew, to where his quarry lay, and to danger. The music was almost below the level of perception, but it was still there.

He turned a final corner and found himself face to face with the monster.

Its form was like a human’s in that it went on two legs, had two arms and a head, and five fingers on each hand. But it was huge, grotesquely misshapen, covered with shaggy black hair, with eyes of fire and a mouth of gleaming fangs. Terror hung about it like a stench. It towered over the frightened elf. Laughing horribly, it shook an enormous spear at him that burned red as fresh blood. Mist’s every instinct screamed at him to withdraw, run, fly, get as far away from this horror as he could. Instead he stood his ground, knowing with a knowledge that transcended both instinct and reason what he must do. The monster raised its spear and aimed it. Mist neither ran nor resisted as the searing point plunged into his spirit’s heart.

Green leaves and red flames swirled about him. The bower was afire. He/she was Mist/Wealweaver, woken suddenly from sleep to find a world gone mad. Strange, hoarse voices shouted, and the smell of burning filled the air.

Someone else was there, a male elf with hair of bright gold. Wealweaver knew her young lifemate — Newsun, beloved, half of her soul, friend of her body and spirit. He roused her and led her out of the flaming treehouse, his voice trying to stay calm as the fear in his dark eyes answered hers. He would not stop to let her heal the burns on his face and arms as they hurried through the trees. All around them were fleeing elves, pursuing humans, blood, fire and death. Pounding footsteps sounded behind them.

Newsun’s hands pushed her deep into a clump of bushes. A sharp, grim sending: **STAY THERE!** Newsun was running back toward the humans, the humans who dragged behind them a small, limp body with hair as golden as his own.

**Sunbeam! My son!** Mist/Wealweaver could not tell whether the anguished mental cry was Newsun’s, his/hers, or both. A knife was in Newsun’s hand, a little knife, suitable for gutting fish or pruning dead branches. He sprang at the humans, yelling, and managed to draw a line of blood across the forearm of one before the man’s spear caught him in the belly. Transfixed, he writhed, trying even through his pain to fight his way up the spear-shaft to his enemy. The human laughed and twisted the spear in the wound. Newsun’s body crumpled. The knife dropped from his fingers. Blood ran along the human’s weapon, down Newsun’s legs, soaking into the grass. The human lifted the spear and its victim off the ground as the dying elf clutched feebly at the shaft, then hurled it down. Newsun lay sprawled on the bloody earth, pinned by the spear. Grinning, the human took a long, wicked-looking black stone knife from his belt. He bent over the supine body, seized a handful of golden hair, and hacked at the slender neck until the head came away, streaming blood. The last sight before darkness fell was Newsun’s dead eyes gazing mournfully at his lifemate from his dangling, severed head.

Now was the time for Mist to fight. The part of him/her that was Wealweaver was sinking into darkness, completely overwhelmed. The healer, who after a long life of peace could hardly conceive of deliberately inflicting harm on another intelligent creature, had seen her lifemate brutally slain before her eyes, powerless to save him. (A fleeting memory came of kneeling by his headless corpse, slender hands running over it frantically, burns and wounds closing and vanishing, but no remedy, no way to retrieve what was gone.) It was too much for her. Better oblivion than this rending loss, this half-being, this horror. But the part that was Mist struggled against oblivion. Much younger than she, he was stronger, no stranger to pain and loss, violence and death. Though he hated them no less than she did, he refused to give up life to them. He refused. He _refused_. Drowning in a black whirlpool that threatened to suck his spirit into the void, he took hold of the part that was Wealweaver and thrashed desperately toward the surface, toward light and air and sanity.

All at once it was over. The clutching darkness was gone. He stood deep within the recesses of Wealweaver’s mind, in the center of the labyrinth, shaken and exhausted but himself once more. Before him the healer stood, staring at him.

**Who are you?**

**I’m called Mist. I am a friend. I have come to find you and lead you back out of this place.**

**You cannot. The way is barred.**

**No longer.** He turned and looked behind him. The hulking monster was gone. There was instead a symbol on the wall: Newsun’s death in all its horror, but with elements in it of sacrifice and bravery as well. Though it was still charged with grief, it was no longer a monster, but a memory. Now that the struggle was over, music came faintly to that deepest place, a lilting, wistful, longing melody. **The way is open. Come with me.**

The answer was dull and unutterably weary. **Why should I come? It is peaceful here now that the monster is gone. My lifemate, my children, all my folk are dead, my home destroyed. What is there to come back for?**

**Not all your folk are dead, Wealweaver. Joyspring your daughter lives, along with others of your tribe. Starsinger your sister’s son has returned — do you not hear his harping? They long for you. They need you. Come back to them.** From the depths Mist reached out, touched the minds of Joyspring and Starsinger, and brought their faces before Wealweaver. She reached toward them hesitantly, then drew back.

**No! Leave me in peace! What good am I to them? I can help no one. My lifemate died in spite of me. Melié and her enchantments are gone. The humans are too strong. They will slay us all. We will all die in the end, with no hope of renewal.**

**Wealweaver, listen to me! There is hope for our people. We do renew ourselves. Look at me, see me! Like you, I am an elf, a descendant of the High Ones, but born into another tribe — one that battles with humans and survives. Starsinger came to us and joined with one of us in Recognition. A child lies even now within his lifemate’s womb. You are a healer. Know for yourself the truth of what I say!** Mist’s summons reached out to Kestrel, and she was there with him. In the clearing before Wealweaver’s hut she stepped forward. Her hand took that of the healer and laid it gently over her belly.

**It is true.** There was wonder in Wealweaver’s tone. **A child. New life.** She turned away again. **But what kind of life can she hope for, this child? Struggle, pain and death! A hostile world filled with dangers and enemies. What kind of life is that for a descendant of the High Ones? What hope can there be in the end for our race, scattered and abandoned as we are, fallen from our glory, severed forever from our lost home?**

For a moment Mist was silent, unable to answer. Then the melody of Starsinger’s harp came to him, and with it a hope … a dream. **My friends, my friends,** he called. **The Dreamer’s vision. Help me remember.**

They were all there with him, joining hands as they had around the campfire, summoning up the plain of ice, the glowing crystal spires, the prophecy and the call. **It calls, and they shall come … in joy they shall be gathered together … they shall come home. Come home! Come home! …** The lilting, yearning melody was there, weaving itself in and out of the words, the words and notes becoming one song. The song led them — the song was a bright thread drawing them outward and upward, through the twisting maze, past memory-images that flared to new life, out and up to light, light bursting in on them…

Mist opened his eyes and found himself gazing into the grey-green ones of Wealweaver. They were no longer empty. The healer’s spirit shone in them; the healer’s hands lifted and gently removed his hands from her shoulders. “Thank you, Spirit-tracker,” she whispered.

Joyspring’s happy shriek of “Mother!” sang in the air. Mist moved back as the golden-haired elf maiden threw herself into her mother’s arms.

 

“You cannot be persuaded, then?”

“No more than you can.”

It was several days later. The Hawkfriends were leaving the Enchanted Valley, taking with them Joyspring, Greenbough, and Wealweaver. Foxwit, however, was not coming.

His reaction to the awakening of Wealweaver had been one of unfeigned wonder and even joy. It was plain that along with all his tribe he loved the gentle healer, and that his harshness had been partly a mask for his pain. But when it became clear that the other elves of the Valley intended to leave with Starsinger and his companions, he became once more withdrawn and moody. At last he announced his intention to stay behind.

Joyspring urged him to come with them. Her entreaties were seconded by Starsinger, Kestrel, and Mist. Even Galedancer added her emphatic pronouncements to the argument. He would be lonely. The humans might return. The Hawkfriends would welcome his toughness and tenacity. He remained deaf to all pleas, countering them with one of his own. Would not Joyspring stay? Together they might renew their tribe and watch the Valley come to life again. But Joyspring would not. She refused to abandon her mother, and the healer had prescribed for herself a complete change of scene. Another reason, too, lurked in the elf maiden’s forest-green eyes whenever they rested on Mist. Foxwit, whose own eyes missed little, accepted her answer in silence.

So it was that they took their leave of him in the clearing that had been the Valley elves’ camp. “If you ever change your mind,” Starsinger told him, “just follow the river upstream. It’s a long journey and not without danger, but at least there’s little risk of getting lost. Watch out for the humans’ camp on the lower slopes of the mountain, though.”

Foxwit laughed. “I can deal with humans — better than you did, Starsinger, I fancy. Watch yourself! And if you ever change your mind — if your caves start getting too crowded — I’ll be here waiting for you.” His voice softened as he unconsciously echoed Mist. “It will come back, you know.”

“I know,” Starsinger acknowledged. “Perhaps one day I will bring my child to see it.” He sighed and shook his head in mild amazement. “How destiny plays tricks on us! You were always the restless one, while I lay and dreamed under the stars. Yet now my dreams take me away, and yours keep you here. Who can say which is the better dream? Not even the High Ones, maybe. Farewell, Foxwit.”

“Farewell, Starsinger … wherever your dreams may lead you.”

As the travelers toiled up the last few steps of the steep path beside the waterfall, Starsinger turned for a final look at his former home. For an instant he saw it as it might become, green and whole, renewed in beauty. As he turned away, he was not sure whether the vision had been Foxwit’s dream or his own.

F I N


End file.
